At a roadside stand we taste honey again,
jasmine this time, and orange.
Unfiltered says the man, holding a jar,
the amber a cloud in his hand.
We are going to the coast, almost out of cash,
and I think of how the honey will spread on toast,
the way it will flavor our tea,
a long unspooling into painted mugs,
the shimmerdrip from a spoon.
Dust blows across the table,
and as I reach toward one sticky lid,
home sits quiet in my mouth.